


the👀loft

by sonshineandshowers



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Anxious Scratching, Comedy, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Experimental, Gen, Humor, Inpatient Therapy Discussion, Mental Health Issues, Personification, Silly, Some drug references, Trauma, issues caregiving, issues with selecting therapy, some sexual humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:54:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24742651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonshineandshowers/pseuds/sonshineandshowers
Summary: Gil sends Malcolm home to his loft for the day, and it's the last place he wants to be. His loft knows that, too, so it tries to make the best out of the situation and care for him.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo/Jackie Arroyo, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly
Comments: 11
Kudos: 10





	the👀loft

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ProcrastinatingSab](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProcrastinatingSab/gifts).



> for ProcrastinatingSab friend, remember the time we joked about randomly ending a story...
> 
> 100 points of view, 100 words apiece, all of them ending on open-ended lines that flow together to create one big, cohesive story. <3 you - hope it brings you a laugh :)

“Go home,” Gil said.

He didn’t really say it. Rather, he declared it with an arm wrapped around Malcolm’s shoulders steering him out of the precinct. There wasn’t an option, space for negotiation down to hiding out in a conference room, just an ultimatum.

Home wasn’t where Malcolm wanted to be when his mind raced on a hamster wheel for a way to escape, destination always moving, just out of reach. Quiet wasn’t comforting when his brain was on overdrive. Gil had promised he’d come see him later, but that was so far away.

He took out his keys, wondering —

* * *

Reflecting back the man, the glass could use some cleaning. There were clouds among his countenance, some of them shading below his eyes, some of them marring his mouth, wavering an unreasonably large frown. Happiness looked a lifetime away, long before the door ever met him.

It didn’t have a way to speak, to console the man who entered and left every day on some quest to justify his existence. All it could do was show him he was not okay. That he could wipe away the clouds with spray and some elbow grease.

But his drooping eyes were unseeing —

* * *

Key slid in ’til it was snug, the slow nudge over pins telling lock its other half was home. Earlier than expected — late morning light still streamed through the windows. It would’ve considered it an early treat if it hadn’t caught vibes from door warning all was not well.

Key turned quicker than usual, yet there wasn’t enough torque to snap. Tumbler whipped back from its nest in the frame, shocked to attention. Swallowing the intrusion, lock attempted settling everyone, nestling together as the troubled man brushed against them.

Yet the moment was broken when key whipped back to center, —

* * *

Fingers were rough against doorknob’s brass, grip tighter than usual, transferring into frustration that shook it to its chilled core. A jerk on the handle rattled it against the door, a little more wiggle now that it was getting up there in age.

The man was getting too old for this, too, unmodified behaviors driving him to the same darkness. Too many days he came home wanting to squeeze something into submission, to punch, kick, and _scream_ until his demons were released.

Escape wasn’t possible. So doorknob let him squeeze as hard as he needed to continue on.

Pushing inside —

* * *

There were only a few people who could get in without a buzz. The man who was usually the one pressing intercom’s buttons of talk, listen, door to let someone up was one of them. He didn’t stop by to say “Hello, who is it?” on the way by, didn’t take an extra moment to listen to what they had to say. Only took a few steps forward, enough to quickly close the door.

 _No one allowed in_ , it knows. Only buzz if called for.

Intended to keep external forces from busting in the door.

But they were already inside —

* * *

“Are you turning on?”

“No, you?”

The two light switches prattled, spying the man glancing around the loft. They competed for who would get his attention, children unnecessarily vying for daddy's affection.

“I’m brighter than you.”

“I’m brighter than _you!_ “

They knew the truth was they were exactly the same. One controlled the lights in the entryway, the other, the kitchen.

“He’s gonna pick me!”

“No me!”

Neither one got the warm press of a finger flipping them on, a slide turning them from dim to washing the entire space. He remained alone in the semi-dark, only daylight entering on —

* * *

Hook diligently reached out for the man's coat. Still chilly enough to need it in the evening, coatrack got to do its job sheltering his coat every evening 'til morning. It wasn't usually on the clock during the day, but it reached for his coat just the same and held it for safe keeping. 

It was the second time it'd been called upon that morning, a pair of unusual events that perked its suspicions. Did it need to be on high alert? Would there be any more guests it didn't have places for?

It looked toward the door, anticipating anything —

* * *

Strong arm painting looked at the man's back. Always his back. Too busy coming or going, he never did take a few extra moments to admire it face to face. So it took in his shoulders, followed how they hunched or dipped when he was tired, alerted its friends who could continue the protective watch if he headed to the living room.

But he didn't. He faced the kitchen, seemingly lost. Rattled his hand against his side as if the whole room couldn't see. Left an offering below, keys clinking against ceramic bowl.

What he looked for? It didn’t know, —

* * *

Stairs were one of the few things that got the man to rest. Feeling the fine weave of his pants, cushioning his legs, taking some of the weight off of his frame. One shoe came off, then the other, the weary pair destined to be housed in the entryway.

Much as they tried to keep him comfortable for a while, it was mere moments before his legs were walking away. If only they could reach out, hold him closer, wrap him in their former tree’s limbs until everything was alright.

But a child’s treehouse was never part of his life, —

* * *

Taller than Sunshine, lamp stood at rest. Never having been called upon, it was one of the few things that didn’t need to greet the man. Hours left of daylight, it could likely take a siesta and throw shade in the meantime. Two framed art pieces beside it too perky, it would step in and put an end to their ruckus if need be. Someone had to — the man sure wouldn’t do it.

He loved all of them. Equally.

But there were favorites. One of them was perched nearby. If he only knew the half of it. Not always sunny —

* * *

"I saw him first."

"No, I did."

“My eye can see him better.”

“No, mine.”

“We’re two halves of the same piece. Equal.”

“You’re trying to get me to concede.”

“The way the door opens, I always get first glimpse.”

“Maybe I catch his reflection off something else in the room.”

“Yeah? What?”

“Not important.”

“Liar. Prove it.”

“I’m not speaking to you.”

“Good for you. You’re stuck with me — you’ll crack when you get bored.”

Mirrored black and white paintings, incessantly bickering with each other upon the man’s entrance. One man entered, neither one of them won, talking too —

* * *

"Hello, girl."

How nice of him to presume.

" _Sunshine_."

 _All right_. They tweeted and met him at the door so they could get out for a bit.

One of his fingers outstretched in an offering, yet they skipped the perch and flew across the kitchen to the countertop.

"Not in the food, Sunshine."

They pecked a peach for good measure and darted for the living room, a respectable distance away from the cranky man. Nearer warm sunlight pouring through the windows.

Rules? Pssh, they'd show him. One being ruled this kingdom, spelled _S - U - N - S - H - I - N - E_ , —

* * *

_Clunk_ , the man tripped over the step to the bed, catching himself, same as he did regularly. Approaching infinity — step. Still in the hundreds — man. It'd made a game of it at the time it was a daily occurrence, yet now it reared its head weekly.

Why were his feet so tired? He was incredibly smart — why couldn't he understand _up_ when he encountered a small rise in front of him? Were his days filled with so many hills that he was too exhausted by the time he got home?

What was his excuse today? It wasn’t even noon yet —

* * *

"Could I interest you in a vibrator, a condom, any toy that suits your fancy? Breath mint, bookmark, pen, gummy cough drop?"

There wasn't any answer. Silly man. Maybe if he took something from the collection, he'd be happier.

"Upstairs, downstairs, in between — we've got everything!"

Its doors rattled as his cufflinks and watch went on top, yet it never opened. All those wares, and not even a looksy. Nightstand was responsible for the nightlife, recuperating in the daylight, and its charge wouldn’t cooperate.

“Get your superlatives here! Best pick-me-ups money can buy!”

Air wasted on a lethargic, shell of —

* * *

_Click_.

"See that book, there?"

"Which one?"

"This one."

"That one?"

If only bedside lamp could swing its brass arm on its own and bop its partner in the head. It couldn't believe how dim it was sometimes.

"He needs to read _this_ book. It'll help him smile again."

The two of them shined on a powder blue cover — _You’re Smart, Strong and You Got This_.

“Is that a wolf?”

“A fox.”

“Foxes aren’t white.”

“Can be.”

“What does a fox have to do with anxiety or depression?”

“I have no idea. It’s cute like Sunshine — it’ll help.”

“How?”

“I — “

* * *

Illustrations and scribbles galore, book wished the man would take a peek. A pre-release version, specially sent by his sister, yet he’d never cracked the cover. It’s older cousin had unicorns that promised “it’s your weirdness that makes you wonderful” and starbursts that reminded “you deserve to have what you need.”

Yet he apparently didn’t believe it, as he’d never touched its cover since placing it on nightstand. Close enough to tease that he might one day take a look, yet far enough that he never would.

Alone, book considered it might need its own advice — _You’re Smart, Strong and_ —

* * *

The pair of cuffs waited together, assessing their readiness for the man's incoming nap.

"Rings connected?"

"Affirmative."

"Buckles ready?"

"Affirmative."

"Cushioning soft?"

"As a sheep — "

"Sir?"

"Affirmative."

"Are we still looking good on our connection to the frame? Can't afford out the window repeats.“

"Holding steady, sir."

"Lets see if we can get this poor man some sleep."

“Sir?”

“Yes?”

“It looks like it might be a rough one. Shadows approaching half moon, sir.”

“Prepare to hold a little tighter.”

“Yes, sir. Should I engage the emergency support system?”

“Let's see how he does first. Don’t want to cry wolf, — ”

* * *

Thread count the highest available on the market, sheets rubbed against themselves, trying to warm and be more inviting. They did everything to ready him for a much needed nap. Held each piece of his suit as it came off his body. Wrapped him in the tightest hug to keep his anxiousness at bay.

Sheets had the closest relationship with him behind Sunshine and shower. Toilet liked to think it could drop them to fourth, yet they always fought and retained their position. They got to hug the whole man — toilet was full of shit.

As the man slid inside, —

* * *

Cradle, cradle, cradle — catch, pillow cushioned the man's head when it dropped. Success!

Accuracy rate — 100%. Just like the man himself, always 100%.

Except pillow could say it truthfully. It had never failed to catch the man, never pulled away and teased “Missed me!”, never dropped him to the sheets when he got angry and screamed. Faithfully held his jaw as it gnawed through yet another mouthguard, protected his ear from his obnoxious volume, wicked moisture from his eyes that seeped into its polyester stuffing.

Absorbing the man’s suffering, pillow stayed on the lookout in case of shifting, supported by —

* * *

Headboard could've taken two pillows stacked against it, yet it was only supporting one. It was a rarity to be called upon for its full capacity, something not chanced since a woman had joined him months before. It had supported every gender in the past, treated every person with utmost respect in an attempt to encourage them to come back.

They usually didn’t. Half capacity, it took a whole team of them to contain one sleepless man. Cuffs had it covered at the front lines, yet headboard took up the rear, looking out for anything that might go awry.

Well, —

* * *

Passed from Milton to Milton to Milton, hope chest's fine wood sensed the prior Milton's clicks across the floor, reverberating into its base. Despite its name, there wasn't any hope — the intruder was already inside.

" _Malcolm_ , what are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same, mother."

"Gil on me wasn't enough for one day? Had to tag in?"

"What are you talking about?"

_Danger, danger._

“Well, now that you’re here, you might as well get up, start your day.”

“It’s my — “

“My loft. _My_ loft, need I remind you.”

“ _Mother_.”

“Up — Gil says you need — “

“That doesn’t sound — “

* * *

“Can anyone reach her?”

“She’s too far away!”

Every doorknob on bureau tried to stretch toward the woman who strode into the room. All of them came up short. They needed the man to help, and he was already getting bombarded. If intercom had done its job and warned the whole loft, the conflict could have been avoided, the woman stopped right at the front door.

“She has a key.”

“Still could’ve stopped her.”

“I don’t see how.”

“Get some clothes ready — he’s going to need some fresh armor.”

“I’ve got waffle weave — lefty, pull some lounge pants.”

The man —

* * *

“Incoming!”

Bathroom door slammed behind the man, two tiny paintings the first to catch a glimpse and warn the whole room.

“Activate ultimate stress relief protocol — we have a situation!”

Though they took up the smallest footprint, they had the biggest role in the space — set the tone of the room for the occupant’s needs. Wrapped in a sheet from bed, they pulled out all the stops to give him the best treatment.

“Get everything nice and toasty — c’mon team! We’ve got this!”

Sheet fell to the floor. The man grabbing the sink, the two tiny paintings ceded command to —

* * *

Sink turned on as high as it could go, roaring hot and trying to pump the room with more billowing steam than it could possibly produce from its faithful stream. The team was running behind, so it worked its hardest to catch up, to bring the man any comfort it could.

 _Splash, splash_ , water flew onto the man’s face in trembling hands, anger shaking into the flow.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” it soothed, yet the washes weren’t enough to cleanse whatever ailed him. He turned the faucet off.

They were in trouble, they were in trouble. “Hide the, hide the — “

* * *

“He can see!”

Shit, mirror had fucked up. _Big_ time. Its job was to fog up enough by the time the man looked so he couldn’t tell how bad off things were. He usually turned shower on ahead of time, and that made its job easy. This time, he was stressed, and he messed up the order.

No shower, no steam. No steam, no fog.

All of his cracks visible for him to see. A disaster of epic proportions all its teammates would scold it for.

“It’s okay, mirror!” one of the paintings called out to it. “Shower’s got him — “

* * *

Rain shower head pelted the man’s back with a warm spray, just hot enough to leave his skin pained, cranky red as he liked it, not hot enough to actually burn. His second trip in that day across a matter of hours, the whole team was concerned what it could mean. It couldn’t control the woman who had graced them earlier or the man’s emotions themselves, yet it could adjust to an optimum temperature that he could relax and figure things out.

The man kept mumbling unintelligible things, pushing at his eyes, forcing in any emotion that might escape. “Help — “

* * *

The cry shot through all the grey subway tiles, a wave shimmering around the room in a slinking inchworm fashion. As one cohesive unit, they could band together and keep the woman out. Together, they were a stronghold.

The man kept scrubbing at himself, nails ripping into his flesh leaving angry scratches among the pink. They wanted to say _stop it, I’ve got you_ , but knew he wasn’t listening, too holed up in his mind to process anything.

His fingers meeting their cool surface, they finally got through to him. “It’s okay. Breathe.”

With a gasp, the rain head stopped, —

* * *

Towel rack worked double-time heating to the appropriate temperature so the man's towel would be roasty toasty by the time he emerged. It had one vacancy, the other towel currently lost somewhere to pending laundry. All the easier for it to ensure its job was done expediently.

Would a warm towel be enough to help him settle? With every droplet it grabbed from his skin, could it leave comfort in its place? He needed every bit of help he could get before putting on his armor.

The man reached for towel rack, and it knew it had done its part, —

* * *

Towel shivered, rubbing all over the man’s body like a rambunctious dog thrilled to see their human companion. The wetter it got, the more it shook, knowing it had even more love to give the man. It held all the moisture in until it could go back to towel rack to dry.

Towel would hug him all day if there wasn’t a visitor. “Intruder,” the room reminded, yet it enjoyed touching everyone’s skin, feeling the differences and guessing who was who without even looking. A trick of the trade.

Rehomed, it rested while the man put on his armor, taking —

* * *

A little bit of gel squirted out. Not a go to work bit like it had produced that morning, nor an ‘I’m tired of this’ forgotten bit that washed down the drain. A small amount to pin his lengthy strands back from his face so he could see the world with two eyes.

Gel knew it wasn’t necessary, that it could take naps seven days a week if it wanted and there wouldn’t be any outrage, just a little more of a mop to contain. It liked it that way, producing when called upon, lazing the rest of the time, —

* * *

On the other hand, toilet was cranky. Left all alone in the corner, it wasn’t called upon for any function. The man’s entire outfit was on — it wouldn’t get visited until much later. Hours to mope.

“I want the number three spot!”

The whole team laughed at it, as its buttons said one and two. There was no way it was bumping out the top two contenders, though, so it would do what it could to elbow for third.

“What is a number three?” pipes asked. “We don’t even know if we can handle that.”

“We can take anything!”

“Not — “

* * *

The woman sat tall, her weight shifting as moments turned into minutes turned into nearly half an hour. Stool didn't care — all it did was sit around. Occupant or not, it hung out passing time with its buddies by seeing how long they could hold a straight line.

Currently out of place, it provided the woman with a roost while she waited for her son, tap, tap, tapping her fancy shoes against its gunmetal surface. Two could play that game. Sunshine swooped in beside her, tap, tap, tapping its friends and flying off before the woman got a word in —

* * *

The _nerve_ on that boy. Gil had warned Jessica something was up, that he was keeping an eye on Malcolm, but to go into hiding? Did he think she couldn’t hear him futzing around, stalling as long as possible so as not to see her?

It was about time they talk about options. Tiptoeing around the issue never worked, and they had put up with his wheel of misfortunes long enough. His public meltdown wasn’t in her cards.

Though she’d originally arrived to prepare him dinner for later, she knew an opportunity when she saw it, the bathroom door clicking —

* * *

"Do you know how much trouble you're in?" the woman's voice bounced off kitchen counter's surface, scattering all over the granite.

It had a hard shell. It could stand up to forces even when they were domineering like her. Could even drain the anger out of her if she set left her hands on top of it long enough.

"Mother, low stress," the man reminded, hiding behind it. It would build a veritable wall for him if it could, no visitors allowed in. "When did Gil even call you?"

"Last night."

They were in the clear, they were in the —

* * *

"Do you let that bird into everything? There's a chunk missing out of this peach for god's sake!” The woman was not very happy.

Full of the good stuff, bowl of fruit wanted to remind her that she was a guest, and she could stick her faulty opinions right up her —

The man bit into the peach, juice dripping onto his chin. "She picked a good one — it's delicious," he said, mouth still full, chewing.

"Your manners!"

Apple and orange stood by, wishing she would take a nibble so they could bitterly send her on her way. Alas, she wouldn’t —

* * *

"Tea?" the man asked, resting kettle on stove.

Stove rarely got used, so it was a treat to be called into action. It readied its ceramic surface, waiting for the moment the ignition would kick.

"Coffee for me. _I'll_ make it. Wouldn't want you poisoning me,” the woman scoffed.

Like _he_ was ever the one with proclivity for a little toxin. Stove had witnessed her dosing him, and upstairs lamp had shared the office’s secret papers.

Knob still didn't turn. Boy, his reactions were delayed today. It heard through the electrical line that towel rack had seen the same thing —

* * *

Pop.

Instant heat. Knob had the ability to take the stove from hand touching to hand melting in a second. It liked a little fire — cooking, not burning the place down. Sometimes it got a little overambitious and bubbled over a pot, yet meals were so infrequently cooked on stove, surely knob couldn’t be faulted for being zealous.

 _Fire!_ Electricity shot through its circuit and heated kettle, warming its insides from the bottom, up.

If all the knobs worked together, could they ever attempt the meal they’d heard called Thanksgiving Dinner? Did the man know that many people? Could they —

* * *

“That tickles, that tickles, that tickles!”

Mug tipped back and forth in the woman’s fingers, each brush of her manicured tips releasing laughs that threatened its existence. If she kept that up, it would wind up on the floor in a pile of shards.

Thankfully, she put it underneath espresso machine, away from any wandering tickles. Mug had survived the man’s shaky hands — it would be a shame to die by his mother.

What would it get to hold today? Latte? Cappuccino? Americano? It liked them all, yet got an extra buzz from straight shots to the glaze, its favorite —

* * *

“How did you end up here in the middle of the day?” she asked, looking straight into espresso machine.

“See, you can be nicer,” espresso machine attempted to reflect, yet she was too focused on pushing its buttons.

Double Americano. Basic. But it wouldn’t tell the woman that — she’d have a fit, and the poor man was already getting an earful.

“Gil gave me the day,” the man said.

“You forget that we talk to each other, and lies don’t work on your mother.”

Busted. Greater or fewer shots into the Americano, greater or fewer… Triple Americano!

See how that —

* * *

Abandoned.

French press wanted to play too. Yet it had already been called upon that morning, and the man wouldn’t go for another cup. The woman was too fancy to consider it, so it hung out under espresso machine’s cover.

“I haven’t been sleeping,” the man quietly admitted.

French press was responsible for actually making him functional in the morning. He wasn’t telling her everything — he shook sometimes, talked to the air, walked around the apartment and didn’t understand how he’d ended up where he did. Things were… not good.

“And?” the woman asked.

“You interrupted a nap, mother. I — “

* * *

“ _Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!_ “ tea kettle wailed, saving the man from the conversation. It had the last ingredient needed to make him a soothing concoction. Chamomile? Valerian? Mint?

Tipped over mug, its hot water contents poured in to mix with chamomile. Flowery bits that would hopefully bring him some peace.

“Have you been taking your meds?” the woman inquired.

“Why would you even ask that?” the man returned, clutching mug between all his fingers and inhaling the steam.

Kettle left aside on a cool part of stove, it couldn’t shout to help him again. He was on his own.

“I think maybe we — “

* * *

“No.”

“ _No._ ”

“No!”

“ _NO!_ ”

“Mother dearest, mother dearest let him go!” the pill bottles shouted, each one of them continuing in a round of no’s.

Some got cracked in the morning, some got cracked at night, yet regardless of the time, they were a daily ritual. He never skipped them. How _dare_ the woman accuse him of neglecting them. They were a well-loved necessity.

Well, perhaps more a tolerated necessity, but they were never forgotten. She could count them — they’d prove it if they had to. Not that she should ask — he was a grown man. He could take care —

* * *

“Who’s he gonna pick? Who’s he gonna pick? Pick me! Pick me!”

The Twizzlers shouted, each of them vying for the man’s attention to be his next snack. They lived in a forever filling tub, a staple in his kitchen.

Wiggling against each other, they worked up to a sheen to make themselves more appealing, even activated their special cherry scents so he would lock in to one of them and take it for lunch.

“It’s me! It’s me!” The lucky winner went for a ride, its shimmering coat pulled back to reveal its pert ridges. It forgot what winning —

* * *

Hexagonal backsplash was alight, trying to reveal the woman to the man while his back was turned. He never could be too careful — her claws were feisty, and absent anyone else to rip into, he was a prime candidate.

“Can we please talk about your health? For a few minutes?” she requested. “Like adults.”

“Why are you here?” he asked.

“Making you dinner. Because we’re worried.”

“It’s not any worse than normal.”

“The specialist?”

 _Bzzz_ , each tile communicated to the next, waving in patterns designed to scare wasp predators away. One sting, and the whole colony could melt down, could —

* * *

“Spoons! More spoons, more spoons! He needs more spoons!” one wooden spoon cried, jolting the team into action.

Each one had a different shape, a different technical purpose, yet together, they helped him manage through the day.

“Hole-y, you’re up first. Mole, be on standby — might need to make one of his other mom’s favorites. Hard to tell what he needs right now.”

“He doesn’t really look like he wants to eat anything,” spatula replied.

“Be ready in case that means icing. You never know — as long as it’s something.”

They all popped up at the ready, none of them —

* * *

“He’s taking us, you fools,” knife gleamed in the sunlight.

A slash, and it could feast on juicy flesh. A stab, and it’d be sated for a week, blood seeping out around it. A swish, and want would pool until it could get more taste than the tip.

What was ready to be butchered today? Who was the next victim?

Slice, it swallowed red, slice, it lopped a neck. Piece by piece the rubbery beast fell until there were only slivers left.

 _Crunch_ , the man chomped on a bit of red pepper. Not as bloody as it had hoped, yet —

* * *

The rush of water from sink drowned the woman’s questions, giving the man brief respite. He was stalling, yes, but it didn’t have anywhere to be. If he wanted to rinse her concern, it supported him, as it was better than a bottle of bourbon.

Through pipes, it heard from shower he was upset, could sense distress on his fingers itself. Did he know he had options? Could ask for help?

His moping wasn’t exactly coping — it was just sad for a man capable of so much else — for anyone, really. Crying without even producing the river, just a dribble —

* * *

Squeezed much harder than it needed to be, sponge slid its way across knife’s blade, clearing any trace of pepper remnants. Another one lost to the cause of feeding the man.

They were all renewable — experiences passed down from food to food, their souls transmissible inside their respective containers. No one was ever truly gone — just traded into another physical embodiment.

Sponge was getting up there itself, losing its scratchy edges. Wouldn’t be long before its face separated from its body. One day it would be fresh yellow and green again, yet for now, it was fine, just fine, like —

* * *

“I really don’t understand why you’re avoiding this so much,” the woman leveled.

The man dropped knife into dish rack harder than dish rack was accustomed to handling, leaving it to catch the blade so it wouldn’t clatter to the floor.

“I’m fine, mother — really,” he insisted.

“Gil wouldn’t send you home if you were fine. You’d be able to look me in the eye if you were fine. You wouldn’t be fidgeting away in the kitchen if you were fine!”

He clutched knife, leaving dish rack barren again. Always one to quickly put things away, it didn’t do much —

* * *

Knife block housed knife after its meal, keeping it snuggled up and protected. It looked after a whole family of knives, some of the most prized pieces in the loft. Knowing what a great responsibility that was, it ensured no one got nicked while in its care.

There had been an incident some time back, the man taking one knife in the middle of the night and slashing at some unknown foe. The tip had come back moderately scathed, not designed to contend with hardwood. But it had survived, and all the humans had as well.

Perhaps a lock was —

* * *

Cabinet after cabinet opened, the doors knocking closed again. What was the man looking for? If he just told them, they would point it out.

“Malcolm — just take a glass from up top,” the woman directed.

“I want the pint Jackie gave me,” he replied.

Comfort glassware. Hidden away in the back so nothing could happen to it. The light didn’t reach there. He’d never find it on his own.

“Ask for help!” cabinet pleaded.

Not his strong suit, the doors continued banging as he kept coming up empty, the woman complaining in the background. “Stop it! Just take that — “

* * *

Water glass felt the man’s hand curl around it, and it got uprooted from its perch on high. It wobbled in his hand a moment before resting on the counter.

Usually, water glass was a staple. He clutched it in the middle of the night when he woke up screaming, clung to it like a lifeline when he needed to anxiously sip something, and kept it around as a reminder to hydrate.

Yet right now, it was a distraction. A way to do something to avoid turning around. Mug’s drink already into him, he didn’t need another so quickly. Why —

* * *

The stainless steel surface of refrigerator showed the man’s countenance plain as day. It had no interest in hiding the reality, only wanting to show him how bad things appeared… with a little pragmatic exaggeration.

Shadows dropped to his chin, a red ball reflected back where his eye should be, his mouth drooped in an infinite frown.

What was one more magic mirror in the fun house? Maybe it would teach him a lesson to reach out instead of hole up.

The door whisked open, taking away the opportunity for the grim presentation, and his hands reached inside, grasping for —

* * *

Take one down, pour it in a water glass, no more bottles of sparking water in the loft.

No more sparkling water? What a travesty. It was the only thing that sustained the man some days.

Flowable to any form, it sloshed up the sides of water glass, ready to go down a long slide into his stomach.

“Happy now?” the woman asked as he brought water glass to his lips.

“Peachy,” he replied, taking a lengthy sip.

Bullshit. It wavered all over like many other days, his hand not up to the task of holding still. A shake and —

* * *

_Crash!_ Water glass shattered on the kitchen floor, spraying sparkling water everywhere.

Paper towels were at the ready, a whole roll of options for the man to choose from.

Three sheets today, he wrapped up his hand and hurried to contain the mess. The woman helped, too, pulling away her own strip.

“I’ve got it, mom,” he said.

“I can help,” she responded.

Paper towels soaked in all the fluid they could, doubling their weight. Their forms changed into wads, little ghosts of trees past, snowmen wielding shards of glass.

“I think we should sit in the living room,” she —

* * *

_I gain wisdom from my experiences_ daily affirmation card tried to garner the man’s attention. It had already been picked up earlier that morning, yet it figured he could use a reminder.

 _I gain wisdom from my experiences_ , such as learning that they didn’t need to keep repeating like the waxing and waning phases of the moon. He could eat that cheese, and life would change a bit. Things could eventually get better.

It needed fresh font. Maybe a new color in printing. Something to spark his interest. Sitting still out in the open sure wasn’t doing it. Maybe if —

* * *

“Hold her back! Hold her back!” one of the many knobs on bureau cried.

“We don’t need to,” another reminded. “She’s going to help.”

“Are you sure about that? He looks…”

“Broken? That’s why he needs her help.”

“Don’t we have anything inside that’ll do the trick?”

“Who knows. We’re the junk drawers. Here for looks, mostly.”

“We do get the best look when he does pull-ups.”

“Righty!”

“Sorry. Repeating other knobs.”

“We’ll keep a watch, but it’s good she’s here.”

“No one else seems to think so.”

“We’ve got the better view of the place. Things can only go — “

* * *

Box of matches sat on the bureau, a whole host of incendiary devices inside. Yet it couldn’t do anything by itself — it needed the man to spark into action.

Candles, lanterns — it would light anything with some fuel. One of its favorites was paper when he was having a particularly bad day. Its flames would flit around like Sunshine until it tuckered out and the next match sprung up to start anew.

He didn’t seem up to lighting anything on fire, which made box of matches basically useless — a glorified display piece when it had so much functional potential. What —

* * *

“Are you on the lookout?”

“No, are you on the lookout?”

“It’s your day.”

“It is?”

The two lanterns talked, trying to determine who would spy on what would soon be ongoing proceedings in the living room.

“I’m not lit.”

“Neither am I.”

“Shit — neither of us has the good stuff?”

“Nope — matches says they’re ready, but we’ve got nothing.”

“We should probably plan next time.”

“For a woman who shows up unpredictably?”

“Always be prepared.”

“We need a new motto. Something like… ‘the forgotten things’ ‘cause we even forget preparation, too!”

“That’s dumb.”

“But is it wrong?”

“Lantern boys — “

* * *

Horned helmet had traveled to every residence the man had ever lived at, from the Milton house, to weekends at the Arroyo’s, to one awful year on campus at Harvard before several more off, an apartment in Quantico, and then the loft.

Its purpose? _This is who the man is. If the feeling that comes to mind is running away screaming, best do that now._ Things only got more interesting from there.

It also served as Sunshine’s mountain — they got along just fine. Sometimes it would even let them hide behind it and screech, its horns becoming their own. Sometimes —

* * *

No one ever sat in chair beside the window. A some-teenth century piece that would’ve had common function that now served none. A dust catcher. The naughty seat.

Most days, it didn’t even know why it still existed. Why not turn it into kindling? Or roosts? Or anything that gave it something more to do than sit.

It supposed it did get to hear things, at least. A little eavesdropping action to pass the hours.

“I’ll take the chair,” the woman said.

It was getting picked! Cock-a-hoop!

She sat in another in the living room.

Blast her for false pretenses —

* * *

Head’s amygdala was showing, if looking at it the right way. It moved about the living room, sometimes near the bookshelf, sometimes near its current perch overlooking the couch. Every part of the brain was labeled on it, a reference the man found soothing when he needed to relax after panic.

“I haven’t really slept in… a week or so,” the man explained. “And the hallucinations are… worse.”

Miscommunication between the frontal lobe and sensory cortex. Overactive visual and auditory cortexes. All labeled, all visible if he looked.

Left alone, head knew he didn’t want to. Would he let himself —

* * *

Patter, patter, patter, tap, tap, tap, tap — rug absorbed every nervous motion from the man’s bare foot. Soft on top and cushioned underneath, it could take a beating if it had to, yet preferred silence.

“I keep…” the man started, yet he was preoccupied with moving over speaking.

“What, dear?” she asked.

“Huh?”

“You were saying something. You keep — “

“I don’t remember.”

“Are you anxious?”

Rug felt her reach out for him, her pointed toes digging into its surface.

“Maybe a little. I don’t want to go to that specialist. Doesn’t have a good track record with people like me — ”

* * *

“He’s a trauma specialist,” she countered.

Lamp wanted to square off and bring the man’s next point into the light, yet it couldn’t illuminate on its own.

“He’s said some awfully hateful things on social media. I will not be going there,” he said.

Good for him taking a stand for what he believed in. He deserved a say in his treatment, should be able to select who was best suited to help him. Oh —

“You’ve got to see someone. You’re not okay.”

“Maybe sometime in the future. When I’m ready.”

“What does ‘when you’re ready’ look like? A coffin — “

* * *

End table shook when the man landed his fist on top of it. An expert holder of lamp, books, and glasses, nothing fell with the earthquake. It wobbled as much as it needed until everything came to a rest, his hand retreating.

“Despite popular opinion, I do not want to _die_ , mother,” he said.

“Gil told you the same thing,” she said. “Doesn’t that help you realize waiting might not be the best idea anymore?”

“What exactly do you suggest? Because you’re tiptoeing around your point, and we both know you already have a recommendation.”

“I want you to be — “

* * *

Couch held the man in place, its tufts working together to spread his stress so it couldn’t reenter his spine. It also gave him distance — when he leaned back, the woman could only reach his knee. He seemed to begrudgingly allow it, yet couch helped keep the rest of him off limits.

“I can’t flip a switch and turn this off — you know that, right?” he said, a wave shooting out and dissipating across its leather surface.

“Give me a little credit,” she returned. “I just want to help.”

“I don’t even know how.” On his admission, couch swallowed him —

* * *

Chair typically held guests like accessories setup for prime viewing in the showroom. It kept them close enough to talk to the man, yet not so close as to accidentally bump into him. A favorite chair of his other dad’s, it let the man sit eye to eye when a long talk was needed. Or, as the woman currently sat, cornered him so he couldn’t escape.

Sensing her blood pressure was high, chair attempted providing ultimate cushioning. How would she help him if she couldn’t regulate her own body?

Could coffee table help? Maybe remind her of her cooling drink — 

* * *

Coffee table nudged the woman’s leg, drawing her attention. “Coffee, coffee,” it whispered, and she picked mug up from a coaster.

Priding that it had gotten her to take action, coffee table celebrated a moment, basking in its success when others had failed. It had influenced a human!

Shit — it should be trying to lower her blood pressure. That was a Triple Americano. A big no-no…

“Give it back!” its yelling zipped across its wide surface. “Give it back!”

She didn’t listen. Kept sipping, each bit giving an extra dose of caffeine as espresso machine had been feeling extra spicy —

* * *

“How about a different specialist?” the woman asked.

“Your move,” chess set told the man.

The same game that had been on the table since the beginning of time, he moving both sets of its pieces, trying to convince himself he didn’t know where the game would end.

A psychiatric hospital. They could spend the rest of the morning running around the point or hit it head on, getting to checkmate in two moves.

Even though the route to win was clearly mapped out, he moved a pawn instead.

“I’m really not interested,” he said. “Not in an outpatient setting — ”

* * *

“Another setting,” the woman said.

Book got picked up from the coffee table, its cover of _HORTICULTURE AS THERAPY_ screaming at the man in red text. It hadn’t been touched at all, a true coffee table book, all show and no readers. Another gift from his sister.

“I’m not going gardening, mom,” he turned down the suggestion before she even offered it.

She reached for the next sisterly book, its title shouting as well — _This is YOUR BRAIN on MUSIC_.

“You can’t keep picking up things in my loft like they’ll fix me! I can’t be fixed!”

“You’re wrong. You — “

* * *

Desk rescued the man, letting him escape from the couch. Its weighty surface offered a barrier between him and the woman. On the receiving end of her stilettos before, it wasn’t weak like television — it could take it. “Try anything ma’am — I dare you.”

It saw her whip around, try to coax the man back to couch, yet he was having none of it. It was _living_ — it could keep her away all. day. long.

“If we find the right person, they’ll help you,” she said.

Oh. She had a point. Maybe desk was in the wrong playing keep away —

* * *

On.

Off.

On.

Off.

Lamp went through its two conditions as rapidly as the man clicked, always instantly responsive. Did he need help? Yes. Did he need help? No. Did he need help —

“You’re as obstinate as your father,” the woman accused.

“When someone’s trauma is due to a person, it’s really best to not keep bringing them up. I can't keep talking about it. There were reasons I dreaded coming back to New York…”

On.

“Which are?”

Off.

“What?”

“ _Malcolm_.”

“Wh— “

“If you’re really having this much trouble thinking — “

On.

“It’s fine.”

Off.

“It’s not.”

On.

“I…”

“What?”

Off —

* * *

Blotter’s only true job was to protect desk’s surface. It also provided a place for the man to run his fingernails back and forth, scratching into the leather. Designed not to get damaged, he could scratch all he wanted — he wasn’t going to dig in anywhere.

It was more concerned he was engaging in the behavior at all than worried about protecting itself. It much preferred his wild lettering and piles of journal readings than the destructive behavior. Destruction meant their time together would be short lived.

Without the man, they would all be thrown out, they would all be —

* * *

Gold, open sphere sat on desk, ready to catapult across the room at a moment’s notice. Well… that wasn’t its primary purpose, yet it sure was much more exciting than looking ornamental every day.

It figured if it played its cards right, it could reach all the way to the kitchen, fly through a window, or even hit the woman… But that was probably a bad idea. Truly terrible.

“Let’s talk, for real, or I will have you out of this loft so fast,” she threatened.

With a blink of lamp’s light, sphere rang the five-alarm around the living room —

* * *

"She's gonna kick us out!!!" dagger yelled.

"No, she's not. She's bluffing,” returned katana, gleaming nearby.

"We're all gonna _starve!_ Become wayward ruffians aimlessly looking for a next meal."

"What are you, a mafia piece now? You've never been outside of the display case, never tasted a warm lick of blood oozing down a man's coattails, — "

"Y-you have?!"

"The 1600s were mighty exciting."

"We're all gonna _die!_ "

“There’s a whole army of you in here — you’re gonna be fine.”

“There’s only one of you.”

“Only need one. Unless double-wielding… I guess you got me there.”

“Will you panic now?”

“No — “

* * *

“Bury me.”

“What?”

“Bury me,” hatchet demanded of its pair.

“No — we fight. I don’t know who let the Trojan horse in, but she bothers the man, we bother her back.”

“I don’t think we’re supposed to do that.”

“Fight!”

“I don’t want to, dammit!”

“Coward.”

“I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

“Wrong kind of weapon.”

“You have no idea what I’m quoting that from — could have been a dozen things we heard in front of us. There’s gotta be a hatchet in there somewhere.”

“I don’t think there’s time to find it. Dude — just prepare to fight.”

“Bury me — ”

* * *

Scissors sat in their own special dish on desk, voices starting to rumble behind them, offsetting the drawn out conversation in front.

“Would you just come out and say it already?” the man returned.

They had a few choices words for the woman. Snip, snip — get out of here. Maybe catch a few strands of hair, an eyebrow.

He didn’t know it, but those scissors came courtesy of Dr. Whitly. They knew how to cut a bitch.

But they were trapped in a dish, so they’d have to rely on conducting the orchestra of more carefully displayed weapons. On its —

* * *

Jar of pencils was the first casualty, the man’s rocking hand accidentally sending the whole collection to the floor, sprawling out across the rug and hardwood.

It had fallen before. It wasn’t a big deal. A few sweeps, and he would have them all back together again.

“If you won’t see a specialist outpatient, I think you might want to consider inpatient therapy,” the woman said.

All pencils popped to a point, at attention for whatever would need to be written.

“No. Things aren’t that bad.”

“There you go again. What would Gabrielle say?”

“That you should mind your own — “

* * *

Paperweight got picked up and put down in the man’s hand. It really didn’t want to shatter to crystals that day, so it prayed to glassy gods that it could stay on desk.

“I’ve looked at a few places. They're all top notch, dear. Great amenities — " the woman started.

"You can't talk about inpatient therapy like picking a vacation,” he growled.

"You'd rather wait until it's an involuntary hold at the nearest hospital?”

" _Mother!_ "

"Consider your options."

“You can’t make therapy an ultimatum. It won’t work.”

“You have to do _something_. I’ve got pamphlets, referrals, I’ve walked through them myself — “

* * *

Always unlocked, weapons cases were at an advantage. They had all the means dating back a deca-millennium, and the woman would never see it coming. She had a) intruded into the loft, b) caused the man more stress than help, and c) threatened a therapy he clearly did not want.

The logic wouldn’t hold up in court, but thankfully, weapons cases ruled themselves and their contents. They had a fair amount of leeway in dealing with unwanted guests. As long as ladder didn’t rat them out, they’d be fine.

With a gleam in their shiny fronts, weapons cases yelled, “ _Attack —_ ”

* * *

“Lemme at ‘er.” Sai charged, clinking against an unknown metal.

“We’re both stuck,” the other sai said. “Slide up, and maybe you can get your handle out.”

“I can’t move.”

“I can’t either.”

“Lemme at ‘er, bro. Lemme at ‘er.”

“It’s pointless to try.”

“No — just… unlikely. Lemme at ‘er.”

“I get it. You can stop.”

“Do you? I don’t see you shaking when the woman pounds desk.”

“What did desk ever do…”

“Lemme at ‘er!”

“I’ve had enough of you.”

“Too bad — we’re a pair. I’ll look out for you when we get put out on the street.”

“Enough — “

* * *

“Are we gonna move?” one Yuanyang tomahawk said to the other.

“Let’s wait it out. Might poke ourselves by accident otherwise.”

Their double-curve blades stood out in weapons case, the only ones of their kind.

“We’d have to get real up close — do you see any angles?”

“Man’s in the way — don’t want him injured either.”

“We’re also in double brackets — unless someone cuts us loose, I don’t think we’re going anywhere.”

“Think sword would give us a slice?”

“Probably.”

“Let’s be patient.”

“How’d you get so good at that?”

“Been around a long time.”

“We’ve been around the same — “

* * *

“First, I’ll skewer. Then, I’ll parry. Then — “

“Would you give it up already? The whole case is in brackets.”

The swords argued, some of them super energized to fly out of the case for their first action in years, some of them content to wait. It was the difference between the man taking one out to swing from time to time and never coming away from the velvet backing since placement.

“Do you think I could hit from here? Maybe a straight shot through her collarbone — “

“Do you not see the man sitting right there? You kill him, we’ll be — “

* * *

Two throwing stars chattered among themselves, ready to fight, while a third looked on.

“We could totally land. Slice her nose in half!”

“There will be no murder in this living room!”

“There already was.” “Yeah,” came an echoing voice of agreement.

“Not while he was awake. Now stop it!”

“Yes, dad.”

“I’m not your father. Stop acting like a couple of knuckleheads.”

“We’re throwing stars.”

“I’ll throw you — “

“You said no murder.”

“You two will be the death of me.”

“Would that count as a murder? Or a mercy killing?”

“Would you stop it?”

“Mercy killing I think, well — ”

* * *

Ladder flew a message up the rungs, flurrying to reach bookshelves as fast as it could. There was roaring unrest in the weapons cases, and if they weren’t careful, there would be a mutiny. Everyone wanted off with the woman’s head, and the majority of the loft had agreed to no death on the premises. For the man’s health.

Hop one, hop two, hop three, the message beamed for the top, hoping it was enough for the towering tomes to interpret.

“Help! Help! Unrest in the loft! Five-alarm in progress. Cut it, cut it!”

It did all it could, and —

* * *

“Everybody halt!” bookshelves screamed.

The ruckus below slowed to a murmur, only the bravest chancing stepping in to disobey the order.

“We all agreed — no murder in this loft.”

“ _Well_ , a majority agreed,” weapons cases talked back. “We were not among those votes.”

“Some of us were,” the Yuanyang tomahawks spoke up. “Self defense only.”

“ _Regardless_ of the actual count.” Bookshelves took a deep breath and roared, “ _NO MURDERS IN THIS LOFT!_. Solving, not doing. That’s the edict — if you want to stay, you’ll adhere to it. Otherwise, have fun rusting on the street. I’ll turn up the fireplace on — ”

* * *

Hearing bookshelves’ call, fireplace was ready to _melt_. If anyone continued to try to harm the woman, it had the power to turn the blades into molten metal so no one would be able to identify them again. Such a shame for rare pieces carefully sought like themselves.

The threat alone was enough to get them to comply. Fireplace had never harmed anyone. None of them even realized it didn’t light anymore, its wood-burning ability lost during a prior conversion so its existence was purely aesthetic.

They didn’t need to know if it kept peace in the loft, albeit temporarily —

* * *

Stool held the man, escaping the woman yet another time.

“Mother, I appreciate that you’re trying to help — I really do.” Its seat swiveled as he held his head. “But your methods are barbaric.”

Stool’s legs saw the woman’s feet hit the floor like she would stand and go over to him, yet she didn’t. She stayed, rocking just as the man was. Like mother, like son.

“Bring me whatever pamphlets you have, any notes, and I’ll read through them. Read them. I can’t make _any_ commitments.”

“Okay,” the woman responded.

Stool squeaked as the man stood, facing mammoth paintings —

* * *

As one man held the other man’s chin, did the man see himself in painting? Painting looked over the far window, desk, bookshelves, weapons cases — could even see the woman watching over him like she wanted to offer some comfort. Yet she didn’t move anywhere near him.

If she held his chin as painting depicted, would he be receptive? Would he take a hug, a soothing reminder that there were other people willing to help him? For all the day had become a clusterfuck, could he still be consoled?

Shit, painting wasn’t supposed to swear — it was holy after all —

* * *

Two dozen tiny knobs, bureau set the divider between the two paintings, an alter before them where the man could tinker. Feeling his hand rest on top, it invited him to take a peek inside, maybe find something to work with to ease his frustration.

“I know I have to do something,” he said, his sadness traveling through every drawer down to the spare office supplies hiding in the bottom.

The woman’s voice crackled like she didn’t know quite what to say. “That’s good.”

“It hurts when you act like inpatient therapy isn’t a big deal.”

“It isn’t in the — “

* * *

Candlestick accepted the man’s fingers, their grip tight like it could show up as a weapon in a game of Clue. Except it wasn’t the library, and the woman would die if she was called Mrs. White.

“It’s a _very_ big deal to me,” he said

“I mean it in the way I wouldn’t look at you any different,” she elaborated.

“I know.” His finger tickled at its base. “It’s going to take some time.”

“I will still cook you dinner. It can be a nice lunch, and you can eat the leftovers later.”

“I’m not hungry. I’m tired — will — “

* * *

Candle welcomed the man’s fingers playing in the wax, its soft surface inviting fingerprints, soft indents, and even carvings if he wasn’t careful. His movements were more like a soothing stroke than his angry etchings against blotter. Perhaps it was a touch he wanted now, himself, if he were willing to ask for it.

“You go ahead and rest,” the woman instructed. “I’ll make your meals for later. Will even keep in the freezer for you to make things easier.”

“Thanks, mom,” he said.

She coming up behind him, candle witnessed her give both his arms a squeeze, maybe even —

* * *

Painting watched the woman hold the man, the closest contact it had seen that day. Its arms outstretched, it celebrated the joyous moment. Just as it depicted a child floating in the sky, she held him on a pedestal, would do anything for him. She just didn’t have the best way of communicating it sometimes.

Painting was further surprised when he turned in her arms and gave her a hug. For all of the anger and frustration that had bubbled over in the room, they now had peace. For, after all, they were family. The Surgeon hadn’t separated them, this —

* * *

“C’mon, Sunshine,” the man called across the room.

Cage knew that was its cue to get ready for Sunshine to call it a night. Except it wasn’t night, it wasn’t even noon — what was up with this day?

But the bird kept coming closer, so ready it did. Kept the door open, nice and shiny and welcoming. Double-checked the reminder to buy a bigger cage remained on the inside of the cover. Held their food and water at optimum temperature.

Its feathered inhabitant popped inside, and it latched behind them.

“Crazy day, Sunshine?” it asked.

They moped in the corner —

* * *

Whiskey wasn’t used to being poured at 11:30AM, yet it came out of the cabinet and got prepared to reach the air.

It looked left — nothing. Looked right — nothing. Whew — it was safe.

“Ahhh!” the woman was in front of him. _Shit — shit — shit._

 _Oh, it’s the man’s mother._ _Shit — shit — shit_.

“Fuck!”

_Oh, he’s pouring. It’s okay. Everything’s probably okay in that ‘maybe, kinda, hopefully’ sort of way._

Regardless, it wasn’t like it could go back in the bottle. It would come out for a drink and leave it up to them to be responsible. Them? Yeah, right —

* * *

Catching every drop of whiskey, tumbler stood strong to the task. It even got a taste of the high proof liquor, just enough to know it didn’t want to get buzzed on that. Some of the man’s friend’s fruity things — maybe. Not the strong stuff.

It only held a little bit this time. Not the heftier pours like he and his other dad usually drank, not the double doubles his mother poured. Enough to sip and savor.

“Bye, mom,” he said, clinking their tumblers together and disappearing to the bedroom.

“Get some rest. Love you,” she whispered, only her tumbler —

* * *

Photo frame had contents the man liked to look at, the closest thing he had at the loft since he couldn’t bring his sister there right now. The two of them, as kids, were nestled inside, held safely on top of bedroom bureau.

“What would you do, Ains?” his thoughts trickled through to the frame via his thumb and forefinger.

“Pros and cons list,” it responded with one of his sister’s favorite pastimes. Should he have a new pet? List of yays and nays and deal with the outcome.

“Maybe I’ll talk to Gil. See if he’d give me time — “

* * *

Bedside chair wasn’t used to getting an occupant this early. Sometimes the man liked to read before he went to bed. Sometimes he read when he woke in the middle of the night or couldn’t sleep. Sometimes his other dad sat in it, closeby if he needed any help.

The man sat sideways, chair accommodating his sprawl with its arms. Book rested in his fingertips — _You’re Smart, Strong and You Got This_.

Chair had never seen him with that one, yet knew it came from the sister he missed. One part of the worries that plagued him that never decreased —

* * *

Even though the man had fallen asleep, lamp looked on, watching out for intruders. The woman in the kitchen had been downgraded to _not a threat_ again, despite protests from weapons case in the living room. Electrical lines had the hottest news on these things, and they had the whole place wired.

As his chest rose and fell, it hoped it was keeping him warm enough without a blanket or something else to comfort him. Though lamp knew he tried not to succumb, after so much lost sleep, it was inevitable, so all it could do was keep lookout ’til —

* * *

“Hey, didn’t expect to see you here,” Gil said upon entering Malcolm’s loft.

“ _Shhh_.” Jessica held her finger over her lips. “He’s out.”

Gil’s brow furrowed, surprised and worried he had actually attempted rest.

“I was here making him food when he arrived.” She gestured at her preparations. “We talked about inpatient treatment.”

“And?” The two of them had already had several conversations.

“He’s going to think about it.” She looked away. “I did a pretty shit job of bringing it up.”

“He looks okay,” he consoled, rubbing her elbow.

“Because of you, really. I had nothing to do with — “

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> back during the whump fic exchange, ProcrastinatingSab kept joking that she'd end her fic on a cliffhanger because she didn't know if she'd finish. we kept joking about it enough that i needed to write a fic for her. a while back, MissScorp said something like it wouldn't be so bad if it was drabbles, which sparked a melding of twists off both and gave me this idea.
> 
> 100 points of view, 100 words apiece, all of them ending on open-ended lines that flow together to create one big, cohesive story. <3 you sab, friend.


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